


Elven Ruin

by zhxabi



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Hallucinations, M/M, Tragedy, Translation, Trauma, Violence, at least by english fic standards it is definitely not a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28932786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhxabi/pseuds/zhxabi
Summary: Notes from the translator:- This fic is just so comfortingly cathartic to me, so instead of re-reading it a fifth time, I decided to translate.- I took the liberty to add content warnings as per the tagging conventions of English fics.- No beta due to my lack of CN/EN speaking fandom buddies ;-;
Relationships: Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	Elven Ruin

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Elven Ruin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22896772) by [lyric_1224](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyric_1224/pseuds/lyric_1224). 



> Notes from the translator:  
> \- This fic is just so comfortingly cathartic to me, so instead of re-reading it a fifth time, I decided to translate.  
> \- I took the liberty to add content warnings as per the tagging conventions of English fics.  
> \- No beta due to my lack of CN/EN speaking fandom buddies ;-;

He opened his eyes. Frost, hunger, and pain overwhelmed his senses. The Blue Stripes commander clutched his head as he squinted at the horizon across the waves. The sun was sinking west, and the light wasn’t dazzlingly bright anymore, so it must have been a while since he was washed ashore. Vernon Roche made an angry noise. He must have passed out again.

Yesterday, or perhaps the morning before that, he had escaped Nilfgaard’s tight pursuit with his remaining band of stragglers, and had snuck onto the only ship docked at the port. The cabin had been crowded with panicking people and equally terrified livestock. Roche and his men found inconspicuous spots to sit, and waited for the ship to dock. But the _Morrigan_ was not sailing towards Redania as they hoped. It was not until later, when they heard the shouts of the sailors above deck, that they realized the ship had been heading for Skellige. 

It was too late to jump ship. They endured the first night, and heard the captain announce that they were in sight of land the next noon. The Stripes were not relieved for long, however. The Isles were quick to give a ruthless welcome in the form of a sudden storm. The captain lost control of the ship in mere minutes. Roche managed to climb onto the deck amidst the rocking, and was almost knocked off of his feet by a massive wave. He lunged for the mast and held on for his life. Within seconds, an ominous creaking sound resonated from the keel, and he had to let go as the brigantine was tossed into the air by the merciless waves. As the world spun around him, Roche only had the chance to cling onto a stray barrel. Then he blacked out. 

It was past noon when he woke from the coma. The hardened ground beneath him eased his tense nerves a little. Roche bent over and almost coughed his lungs out. After spitting out several bitter mouthfuls of seawater, he propped himself up, and realized with despair that he had been washed up on a desolate gravel beach. Behind him, instead of open plains, there laid jagged cliffs. His entire field of vision was bisected by the cliffs and the ocean, with the narrow beach as a buffer in between. He looked up at the precipice. It was so steep that he didn’t even have to try to know that scaling it was not going to work. 

The complaint in his lungs ceased, but was immediately followed by pain all over his body. He must have hit something before being washed ashore. Exhausted, Roche fell against the beach, the gravel digging into his back. The sun was an orange dome now, without a trace of warmth. Roche shivered in the cooling air, and discovered a much more urgent need with a pang of anxiety. He pursed his lips and felt the layer of chapped skin split with movement. He licked the gushing blood and realized with despair that this could be where he died.

He’d lost track of Ves long ago. Even if she had still been alive, she would have no idea where he was. The chances of the other soldiers surviving were equally as small. The fishermen won’t go out to sea in this weather, either, so the likelihood of being rescued were practically zero, thought the Commander with desperation. He shifted to a more comfortable position, and waited for oblivion to take over. 

He didn’t have long to wallow. Sometime later, another figure was swept ashore by the tide. Roche was so tired that he didn’t care to check if they were still alive, until he noticed a pair of sharp ears and suspiciously familiar clothing. 

He cursed. 

The new shipwreck victim slowly dragged himself towards the shore. Upon hearing a noise, he glanced in Roche’s direction, and then turned his head away with indifference. It seems that they had stowed away in the same ship, and had been washed ashore by the same storm. His double bow was lost to the waves, and so was his headscarf. In the last rays of the setting sun, Roche could clearly make out the old scar on his right cheek, which had been soaked pale by the sea. 

Iorveth.

The Scoia’tael commander was in a drenched and pitiful state. One of his arms dangled unnaturally at his side, and he could only drag himself along with the other one. He was gasping ragged breaths, and could be heard even at a distance. The elf finally threw himself onto a dry place, and stopped moving. There was no reaction from him even as the footsteps approached and a shadow was cast over his face. 

“Still alive?”

Iorveth opened his eyes, and threw Roche a cuttingly sarcastic glance. Roche nodded awkwardly, then stepped aside. Neither of them had the energy to argue anymore, and Roche thought that it would be better for the two to rest apart from each other.

It felt strange to have your arch-enemy lying closeby, at least it was enough to make Roche uncomfortable. His veins burned and itched as if they were pricked. He clenched his fists, then relaxed them again when he heard a hoarse cough.

Finally, inevitably, he thought of Temeria. After King Foltest’s assassination, he and Geralt had been rushing all over to pursue the culprit and reclaim the royal heirs. He had knelt to Anais with full sincerity and had sworn his loyalty. He had taught the young girl how to wield a sword, and had hoped that she would succeed Natalis to be a good queen. But the armies of Nilfgaard had been faster to arrive, and soon enough the flames of war had spread to every corner in Temeria. All their hard work to avoid civil conflicts had only given the devastated Silver Lily a few more months to bloom. 

The never-ending sound of the waves engulfed the former Temerian commander, and he was suffocated by helplessness. Over the past two months, he had felt this way countless times.

_Natalis fell in battle, how long will you last?_ Someone asked in his ear, _How will you keep Anais alive if you’re no longer by her side?_

 _I’m only a soldier, and staying in Visima is not enough to protect her._ Roche opened his mouth, failing to make a sound. _I’ll kill every Nilf I meet, until they get their asses out of the North._

_But Temeria is gone, despite everything, and your incompetence played a part in it._ The voice was unrelenting. _Instead of dying on the battlefield, you’d rather waste away here like a drowned dog?_

Roche hissed and growled like a wounded beast. He turned towards Iorveth, spewing a string of violent curses. The one-eyed elf tilted his head and ignored him. Roche lost his strength after venting for a while. He sank down onto the shore, realizing that the voice came from his own head. 

“Hey,” Roche broke the mutual silence with a hint of awkwardness, “you’re bleeding. Lemme have a look.”

He waited good-naturedly for a while. The elf didn’t nod, but neither did he object, so Roche took it as permission. Roche tried to untie his tattered armor, and frowned at the sight of the wound seeping blood on his stomach. But he said nothing, tore off a few strips of cloth, and tied them together, wrapping it around the elf’s waist. Iorveth watched him work through half-closed eyes, and suddenly snickered, his body swaying with the effort. 

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Roche asked almost reproachfully, as he sped up the movements of his hands. The elf’s hazy state felt wrong to him. Roche tried to get him to stay awake by talking, “How’s Vergen? Why aren’t you with the Dragonslayer?” 

“Vergen is no more,” Iorveth said, with a casualness as if stating that the sky was blue. He laid on his back, letting the other man tighten the bandages, which were quickly soaking through with blood. Roche was aware that he had asked the wrong question, but there was no need to apologize, and they both knew.

“Help me up.”

So much for trying to dress the wound. He reluctantly complied, and decided to put his annoyance aside as Iorveth offered his pipe. The tobacco was still there, although soaked through. He dug up some leaves and chewed on them. The light bitterness filled his mouth, washing away the taste of seawater. He returned the other half to its owner, and the elf slowly lowered his head. Roche thought he was going for a bite, but the next moment a soft tongue grazed his fingers. Iorveth brought the tobacco to his mouth, leaving a wet trail. The elf chewed with lowered eyes, his sight landing on Roche’s calf. 

“Your leg,” he jerked his head feebly, “scratched by something?”

Roche lowered his head, only then noticing the claw marks on his boot. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, taking the boot off and hastily bandaging it a couple of times. He vaguely remembered something clawing at his leg as he tossed around in the waves, but the wound wasn’t deep, and it didn’t hurt at all.

Deprived of an excuse, neither of them bothered speaking again. Roche soon found himself back amongst the flatter rocks. He dozed off at some point, but was soon awakened by the cold. He instinctively glanced at the piece of flat ground where Iorveth had been lying, and found it empty. His drowsiness vanished in an instant. He sat up and discovered that the elf had somehow waded closer to the sea, and was perched in the shallow water, staring blankly out at the waves. Roche swore quietly, got up, and rushed towards him.

“You have to find your way to higher ground.” The elf heard his footsteps but didn’t turn. “The tides are rising. This beach will be flooded, but there might be a way up.”

Roche’s gaze swept across the endless cliffs, and he decided not to disillusion the other.

“You can walk now?”

The elf didn’t respond right away, drawing a breath instead, and Roche watched his back arch. Moonlight fell on the elf’s elegant profile, tainted by an ashen bleakness. His broken arm hung down, a purple color that hinted at deterioration. Roche thought with regret that Iorveth might never be able to draw a bow again. He shook his head, trying to banish the idea. 

“Mae'n brifo… I’d like to rest for a while.”

To Roche, it sounded no different than if he had said “I’m going mad.” The elf’s chestnut hair was drenched by the sea and bent into locks, still dripping with water. Roche couldn’t help but curse, grabbing the elf by his shoulders and trying to drag him ashore. But the other refused to comply. Almost laughing with anger, Roche sank down as well, and watched the elf’s actions with indignance. 

“I hate the sea.”

“What?”

“I don’t like the sea. Strange, isn’t it? The Aen Seidhe reached this land from beyond the ocean, but most all elves dislike the sea.”

Wearily, the elf looked out at the ever surging tides. His body slowly tilted to one side, and Roche could not help but prop him up. The elf leaned on the shoulder of his archenemy, but did not appear uncomfortable at all. He found Roche with his good hand, and the latter could even feel the calluses on his palm. Roche could not tell if it was involuntary or deliberate, but he didn’t care to break free, and felt the warmth on his wrist in silence.

“Roche, why?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you doing all this?”

Roche felt burning skin against his neck. The elf’s head tilted on his shoulder, still persistent with questions. “Why help me?” 

Roche hadn’t thought about it, and he didn’t deem it something worth reflecting on. True, they had been enemies a few months ago, but not anymore. The elves were abandoned after being used by Nilfgaard, and were forced back to being a group of bandits. And then the Black Ones captured their small kingdom once again. True, he could have wiped out every Scoia’tael he came across and tortured them for information, but it was impossible not to feel a twinge of sorrow for the race.

“Because I think… you’re better off alive.” It was all he could say.

Iorveth’s lips twitched, and he closed his eyes as if exhausted.

“Pity.”

He did not say what for.

He wasn’t sure when he fell asleep on the rocks, but in the haze of sleep he felt someone shaking him. Roche groaned, the splitting headache making him reluctant to open his eyes. 

“Wake up, Roche. It’s time for us to go.”

He opened his eyes in pain, glaring angrily at the elf that dragged him out of his peaceful slumber. Iorveth ignored him as he clutched his injured arm, and continued to gaze out to sea. Roche looked after him in a daze. One wave rolled after another, and the wind had picked up. The place where they once sat was already submerged. The elf took a couple of steps forward, then turned back to hurry him.

“The tides are rising. Get up.”

They walked along the silvery-white beach, the seawater flowing over first their boots and then their calves. The two then had to press against the cliff wall as they marched. Roche tried several times to tell Iorveth to pause; he needed some rest. But the elf marched on without looking back with an air of determination, and Roche swallowed his words. The water was reaching their knees when Iorveth abruptly stopped in his tracks, and Roche looked up almost mechanically. A frigid wind blew out of the dent in the rock face ahead, and moss crept over crumbling stone steps, which seemed to lead into a cavern.

Elven ruins. Roche had no time to wonder about anything else. He waded through the waist-deep water onto the steps with difficulty, and hauled himself up.

Fluorescent creatures filled the dome, illuminating the ruin with a faint greenish light. The palace inside the cliff was bigger than he had imagined; it must have taken the elves a long time to hollow out. In another time he would have marveled at the splendor of the architecture—the one hall alone was more spacious than the royal palaces of Visima. Remembering the presence of the sharp-eared one at his side, Roche resorted to cursing in his mind. 

His flint case had been stored in a waterproof pouch, and it was still functional. Iorveth gestured to the torches on the wall. Roche took one and lit it effortlessly. The elven wares were incredibly long-lasting, much like their own lifespans. Roche resigned himself to scouting the way, and having the light in his grasp made him feel better. Besides… he looked at the elf who was inching towards the flames as if afraid of the cold, and thought in annoyance that the best this broken-armed squirrel could do was to not hinder their progress. He wasn’t expecting the other one to be capable of anything more productive. 

They dragged their soaked selves onwards amongst the rubble. Fortunately, most of the stairs were carved out from whole pieces of stone, which withstood the trials of winds and rain, and assured them a steady path forward. There was a thick layer of dust on the ground. It was clear that no elves have returned in decades. He might have been the only human to set foot in the place in all its years. 

_The elves liked living in this place?_ To Roche their tastes were questionable. In his opinion, the forest and the mountains were terrible environments to reside in, but the elves had a tendency to gather in such places. He glanced at Iorveth, who was dragging his feet, but never falling behind. His face was half-obscured in shadow, appearing lost in thought. 

_If they both made it out alive, could he pretend that nothing had happened and go back to killing the opponent again?_ Roche shook the immature thoughts out of his head before they had a chance to take shape. He needed to talk to Iorveth, if only to stop himself from being overwhelmed by the weakness. 

“You know this place?”

“Of course not. I’ve never spent a single day in a palace.”

“A pity. Your pointed ears aren’t of much use here.” Roche huffed as he made his way up a broken stair, with Iorveth following along with determination. The torchlight fell on a colossal stone sculpture. It appeared to be a male elf with a hood over his head, beautifully embroidered robes, and a solemn demeanor. In its hand was a long, narrow shield whose edges touched the ground. _Could it be that even the elves couldn’t bear to destroy their own statues when they chose to lay waste to their land?_

“It must have taken your ancestors quite a while to build these. Too bad it only took days to destroy them.” The former Temerian Commander reached out and brushed the dust off of the stone surface of the statue. “But your lives are even longer. The humans that laid siege here, even their grandsons would be dead by now. But you elves are still around, and will be for a long time.”

“And some of them have already forgotten their way home,” added Roche, seeing displeasure spread across Iorveth’s face with satisfaction.

“This was never my home.” The elf corrected impatiently. “And you think longevity is a good thing?”

“Don’t ask me. I’ve only got a couple decades left, and that’s long enough.”

“That’s the sad thing about you humans.” Iorveth laughed to himself, and was silent, as if lost in thought. 

Roche kicked aside a few pieces of rubble, and stepped over a collapsed stone pillar blocking their way. “Well, if we’re stuck here, we’ll die together. Doesn’t matter how long you’re going to live.”

The ruins either had an intricate ventilation system, or there were other ways out—the air inside wasn’t murky at all. They sometimes saw broken portals with empty crystal slots, vacated by the elves, or by looters. There was the occasional corpse with nothing left but skeletons, which soured Roche’s mood. He would then make a remark to Iorveth. The elf mostly followed in silence, waiting for Roche to speak before chiming in with a few words. Roche was satisfied with this state of affairs. 

They passed by a laboratory with shelves of ancient books, completely useless to them at the moment. Roche rummaged thoroughly around the counters, to no avail. There were devices for distillation, but Roche knew next to nothing about them. The alchemy flasks to the side were filled with yellowish-green liquid, and Roche’s voice of reason urged him to stay away from their contents.

“Iorveth?” He instinctively turned around, only to find that he had sunk down to the ground, barely staying upright against the legs of the table. He seemed unable to stand, and only nodded his head when called. Roche hurried over, ready to help him up. 

“N'te.”

The elf avoided his hand just as it was about to make contact. He dropped his gaze and panted for a long while before raising his head back up. He seemed extremely exhausted, though his eyes were glistening under the flickering torchlight.

“Stop that, elf.” He kept his hand outstretched, taking on a bitter tone, and surprised even himself with his patience. “I’m not doing this for you.”

“Stop pretending, dh’oine. And move on.” The bags under his eyes made him look even wearier, but the elf braced himself and got back up. “And remember, I won’t be waiting when you fall.”

“Fuck you! Do you _have_ to be such an asshole?”

“No.” He managed to trek ahead of Roche this time. The Temerian slowly traced his footsteps, staring at his long, damp hair. “But I wanted to.”

Roche was angry, and he had no idea of what he was mad at. “And what if I can’t find the exit? Aren’t you even going to look at where you’re heading?” He snarled at Iorveth, “You self-righteous bastard. I can’t even give you a fucking hand! Would it kill you to be touched by a human?”

“Still better off than you. A whoreson straight out of the womb.” The elf stopped in his tracks and glared back at Roche, “Damn it, when did I ever promise to get you out of this alive? I can’t even say that for myself! Shut up and save your breath, will you?”

Roche glowered at him, breathing heavily. Iorveth’s chin was raised in anger, revealing the slender neck of an elf. Even with his disfigurement, he seemed unusually beautiful. He wanted to strangle the thin neck in front of him, and tear at the scathing lips. Maybe even rip his shirt open to see just where the tattoo on his shoulder ended. As if reading his thoughts, Iorveth flashed him a warning glance, then took two steps back. 

“I thought our feud was over.” Roche’s anger quickly evaporated, and his voice dropped to a muffled tone. 

The elf shrugged, and turned his head back to the side.

“Yes,” he repeated. “It’s over.”

They went on without a word. 

“Bastards get to live longer anyway,” Roche said out of nowhere. Iorveth pretended not to hear, but the former didn’t mind. Roche desperately hoped that they would survive, so that he would have plenty more time to think of harsh comebacks to throw at Iorveth. He would definitely come up with something. 

His stomach growled. Although it was a normal bodily function to Roche, he still felt a flash of heat across his face. There seemed to be a grumble from Iorveth in the dark, which he took to be a sign for a temporary truce. The elf paused and gestured for Roche to look up. There was the sound of dripping water in the crevices of the exposed rocks. Roche leaned in and caught some with his tongue. Freshwater. 

He had pocketed a small vial from the laboratory, which came in handy. The liquid dripped into the mouth of the vial, and Roche stared anxiously at its bottom, impatiently pouring the thinnest layer of accumulation down his throat. The water was still not enough, only barely wetting his tongue. His unease lifted a bit, however, and he waited with more patience as freshwater filled the vial. He wanted to call for Iorveth, but the other one was pacing around to the side, every now and then crouching down to examine something. 

“Hey!” He couldn’t help calling out, “Come get a drink.”

“Just did.”

Roche couldn’t remember the elf stopping by. _Was there another water source over there?_ But Iorveth interrupted his thoughts. The elf crouched in the corner and motioned for Roche to see the mushrooms growing there. Roche plucked one with care. The plump white mushroom lay in the palm of his hand, appearing harmless. Iorveth also assured him that it was edible, “Just roast it over the fire.”

“Really.” Roche looked at him, suspicious. _The Scoia’tael were long-time residents of the forests, at least this bit of experience can be trusted?_

“Can’t guarantee the taste, though.”

Roche found a slightly cleaner spot and brought the flame closer. The mushroom sizzled and quickly shrunk. Iorveth signaled when it turned a light brown, and Roche blew on it a few times before tentatively putting it in his mouth, and grimaced. 

Iorveth smiled again. Strange, it was crystal clear to Roche even in the dimness, how one corner of his mouth curved upward, and his eyebrows raised ever so slightly, revealing a faint grin. The initial bitterness dissipated, and the soft fragrance of the fungus lingered in his mouth. He gestured for Iorveth to have some. The elf shook his head, apparently devoid of hunger. 

The elf warmed his hands quietly by the fire as Roche ate. When he was done with the whole cluster, the elf readily withdrew his hands, and they were back on their way. 

Roche could see unattended plants that grew wildly, simultaneously spreading and withering from a dried-up spring, dead vines still winding tightly around the fountains. For a long while, the only thing that echoed in the ruins was their pair of footsteps, and gradually only one could be heard. Roche took a deep breath. He had never been so profoundly aware that he was no longer young. It hadn’t been long since he ate, but he was getting tired again, his breathing getting heavier. It was Iorveth who looked as if he could still hold on for a while longer, despite being weaker just moments ago. 

Speaking of which, he seemed to have noticed something. 

“Since when did your tattoo have a rose on it? Right here?” Roche gestured around the collarbone. What he remembered to be a batch of leaves seemed at a glance to have produced a red rose in full bloom.

“You’re seeing things.” Iorveth snapped, but took a step back, veiling himself in shadow. Roche gave an unpleasant “Hmph” and walked on as if he was scouting. But the elf kept a wary distance from him, and the former Temerian commander didn’t get another chance to look at his neck.

“Roche, wait. See that?”

The archer _did_ have better eyesight. He collected his thoughts, squinting at the sudden mist that filled the passage ahead. Unease crept up his back, and finally exploded in his head at the sight of the tiny skeletons in the middle of the path. The ground was littered with countless rat corpses, and Roche took a few steps back. They snuck behind a half-collapsed doorway, watching as the fog stirred with something passing through, leaving a gap sliced by an invisible being.

Had a witcher been with them, the creature would immediately be identified as a foglet. Unfortunately, Geralt was thousands of miles away. Any apprehension from the two experienced commanders proved futile—there was no other way but through the mist. 

“How about we wait for it to leave? My sword got washed away.”

“I didn’t give you the dagger to decorate your belt with.”

“What dagger?” Clueless, Roche whispered back in a hoarse voice. But his hand shot towards his waist as if remembering something. The solid hilt bumped against his palm. _Why did he carry Iorveth’s dagger at his side?_ He didn’t recall ever taking it, or had he forgotten something? The crunch of bones underfoot startled Roche from his thoughts. _Nevermind, the questions can wait for later._

“Whatever it is, its sight should be terrible.” Iorveth mused at Roche, who had similar thoughts. It seemed to prefer lying in wait for prey to pass by, or was it simply bringing food back to the safety of its nest? Roche did not dwell on the matter for long. They didn’t have the time or the strength to turn back, so it must be dealt with as quickly as possible. 

“Stay here, and make a run for it when I tell you to.”

The squirrel hid in the corner obediently. _Damn it, if he died, there would be nowhere for this crippled squirrel to run to either._ The wild thoughts plagued Roche as he crouched and slowly made his way along the wall. The passage wasn’t wide, and there was a chance of running into the invisible monster. Roche reached a decent spot, gripped the torch in his hand, gritted his teeth, and hurled it towards the shadow. 

The monster gave out a shrill shriek, stirring up the fog, and took on a hazy form. The torch hit its body and fell to the ground with a sizzle. It twisted and darted towards Roche, with a swiftness that made his heart skip. 

A long, bony arm clawed down on him with a rush of air. Roche’s hairs stood on end as the ugly face of the foglet flashed in front of him out of thin air. Shouting, he swung his dagger at the claw. A golden glow sparked from the runes on the blade as it sliced the vile flesh. The monster also slashed through the armor on his chest, his medallion blocking the razor-sharp nails at the last second. 

Apparently affected by the runes, the monster screeched and shrunk backward. Roche seized the chance to pick up the torch and madly smashed it into the monster. Its figure was outlined by the flames, and the scorching stench made him almost vomit. The stunt worked, however, and a moment later the monster faded into the mist with a howl. The way ahead was clear, and he didn’t have time to check if it was a lure for the enemy.

“Run!”

He screamed, then started sprinting with all his might. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the tall, slim figure staggering to follow. Roche didn’t have the energy to confirm; he could only hope that Iorveth was as swift as ever. He desperately raced to the other end of the passage. At the end was a wooden door, barely ajar. He rammed into it, pain searing his shoulder blades. Behind the door lay another staircase, and Roche rolled down without watching his step, then pulled himself back up in spite of the pain.

The roaring wind blurred out everything around him. His heart was thundering, and acid was flowing up his throat from the violent sprinting. But the dim light ahead gave him a final burst of strength. His heart leapt with that beam of light, like a desperate traveler finally discovering the oasis. He shouted like a child, almost losing his voice. 

“Iorveth! Io—”

There was no one behind him.

Panic flooding his body, Roche started trembling involuntarily. He searched back anxiously, and there was still no sign of the elf as far as he could see. He couldn’t hear a single sound either. He took a few mechanical steps towards his tracks and tripped over something. Roche stumbled and fell, the dagger that he had been gripping flying out with a clang. 

His heart was excruciatingly beating out of rhythm, and his joints were creaking. He got up, coughing, and scrambled for the dagger. The blade was covered with yellowish ooze from the monster, but there were also dried bloodstains. Were they his own? No, there weren’t any new wounds on him… he instinctively lifted his hands, and almost gagged on the bloody stench. They had been covered in a rusty layer of blood, and his nails were caked with dark scabs. 

For a few seconds his mind went blank, and all he could do was gasp for air. His head was starting to hurt again. The ringing in his ears, the whistling, and the cacophony around him threatened to burst his brain. He squeezed his head, and realized after a long time that the screams were coming from himself. The cacophony of pain ended in an instant, air returned to his lungs, and Roche could breathe again. But instead of moving, he curled up, a low cry escaping his throat. 

And the elven ruins were silent, as it had been for centuries. 

The hilt of the knife touched Roche’s hand. Iorveth gestured for him to take it. He didn’t.

“What’s this.”

“You know what it is.” Iorveth gazed at him, his voice slightly more spirited than before. Roche could guess what he meant, but he’d rather not comprehend.

_Perhaps he had already died in that nameless war._

“I can’t go far,” the elf continued, in the same calm tone that he had just used to describe Nilfgaard’s devastation of his land. Seawater crept up the sweep of his clothes. Roche flinched away from Iorveth’s hand, moving a bit too far and brushing against the wound on his abdomen. His wrist was stained with red. “There’s only one end for me.” 

Sirens wailed in the distance. Roche swallowed the blades in his throat, and felt the body leaning against his slowly lose balance. Roche held him by the back of his neck as he tumbled over, and untied his own chaperone to pad the elf’s head. Iorveth closed his eyes and took shallow breaths, still trapped in pain, groaning at the slightest of movements. 

“You know how to kill.” Not getting a reply, the elf grew agitated. Iorveth gasped for air, and demanded through gritted teeth, “You owe me, Roche. Do you _want_ me to beg?”

“I see.”

“You’ll have to find your way out alone, Roche. And I can’t promise that you will.” He lay face up in the shallows and smiled at the Temerian commander with nonchalance, careless cruelty in his words. He once had the chance to plunge his sword into Roche’s chest, but he chose not to. And now he was rightfully claiming his due—Roche had never hated him quite so much.

The dagger burned in his hand, and its owner cast an urging glance. Roche felt a muscle turning stiff in his face, making his cheek twitch. He slowly got to his knees and knelt beside Iorveth. Countless times he had imagined ending Iorveth’s life, the glory and victorious joy that would come with the act, but never like this, killing a companion in the most desolate hour, not knowing if he himself could live to see another day.

“Ready?”

A blink from the green eye.

“On the count of ten. Ten, nine, eight…”

Iorveth’s gaze fell on his face. Roche pressed his body down and stared back at the elf’s, whose gaze could almost be described as gentle. Gods, this was a lot harder than he’d thought. But he didn’t stop; he never stopped.

“Seven.”

He stabbed without warning, plunging the blade precisely into the heart. The runes glowed the moment it drew blood. Roche didn’t hesitate, only coming to a stop when it was buried up to the hilt. The elf’s eyes widened and gave a violent spasm, the intact half of his face twisting. Roche let go and pressed on his shoulder instead. They were very close, so close that he could see Iorveth’s pupils contract to a point. Forest green melted away like spring snow, and little by little the light in his eyes faded. 

His head ached as if it was going to split, and for a moment he even saw Iorveth mouthing something at him. And damn him for understanding it. 

No, no.

The elf soon lost his strength, his body twitching slightly under Roche’s hand. Blood streamed out of the wound and soaked his palm. Iorveth opened his mouth, breath drifting shallowly around his throat. Roche drew a deep breath as if he’d been asphyxiated, almost choking himself, and realized that he had been holding his breath all this while. 

The elf slowed his blinking, pupils dilating at a slower pace, until he moved no longer. A tear dropped into the swirling tides, not making a sound. He once thought that the elves had no tear ducts, until the entire ocean held their tears.

Death had finally returned the last Scoia’tael commander to the land where the apple trees bloomed eternal. 

Roche waited until the body grew cold before pulling out the dagger. A small spurt of thick blood bubbled up, creeping across the tattoo and pooling at the collarbone. An untimely rose. And its owner rested with closed eyes and a tilted head, as if he would wake from the slumber at any moment. Roche gasped for air and shakily wiped his face.

His knees were stiff, and a layer of dried blood pulled at the skin on his hands. Roche rose, exhausted, and staggered backward—the tides were rising and he had to find a way out. But he was so goddamn tired and all the wounds new and old on his body ached. Roche staggered back to the raised rocks, and couldn’t muster another step.

He closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep for a while. The tumultuous dreams did not last long before someone was shaking his body and calling out his name—a raspy voice, long ravaged by tobacco. He frowned, and finally, reluctantly, opened his eyes. 

On the other side, the waves caressed Iorveth’s body in a soft embrace, and swept silently out to sea.

Notes.

  * Roche’s leg was wounded by a siren; their poison is said to induce hallucinations. 
  * The dagger belonged to Philippa, the same one that Geralt used to break Saskia’s spell by piercing her heart. 




End file.
